


The Devil's Backbone

by RosieWell



Category: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Cheating, F/M, Negan being a asshole, Possessive Negan, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Redemption, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, cursing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-10-15 23:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosieWell/pseuds/RosieWell
Summary: She was the hidden tale of Negan's bat and the woman he had fallen in love with before the days of the dead. The king and Queen of the Saviors. She was the only good thing left, the blackness to his heart. The plan was simple. Be the mole within the enemies group, a couple of nobodies who'd upset the boss, her man. Hell was to be risen. Blood spilt.But now she's on the run from the one man she swore her heart to.After lying her way into the infamous Rick Grimes group of survivors, it was hard to imagine she would grow heart to heart with everyone in the group, especially Rick Grimes. Little did Lucille realize, she had been falling in love the entire time.Now she wants to save his group and the new man she's fallen in love with-but broken love is bitter. Negan wants revenge and will do anything to get back what's rightfully his.Will Rick be able to save Lucille in time? Will Lucille fall victim to Negan? Or will a deadly secret tarnish both men's heart?Love is a deadly thing, even more than the walking dead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, guys! I'm new to archive of our own, but I am not a new author. This fanfiction follows Negan's wife, Lucille. I am aware she dies in the comics, but here she is alive... but perhaps not well. She is hiding a deadly secret, a secret not even Negan is aware of. She is the Queen of the Saviors, a woman of power, and a woman with everything. Perhaps not everything. This is her story!

  **THE BEGINNING OF A NEW END**

**PROLOGUE**

 

The apocalypse was nothing like the scripture had contrived, as in fire and brimstone. The Holy heavens unleashed the wrath of hell like no preacher, priest, or Christianity worshipper had predicted. The devil didn't come in horns and bore a pitchfork. It came in the disguise of the dead, “los muertos.” How Adelia, _mi madre_ , would say it. She did not survive very long, the Lord had taken her in a matter of days–like he had taken everyone else from Lucille, except the man she owed her heart and life to. 

 

**N E G A N**

 

Oh, that man was a godsend.

 

Before and after the days of the dead, their love never fractured under the weight of God's sword. Like _su hombre_ would say, she was a force of nature, born to love like a hurricane–to rip out what is rotten so that new growth had solid footing. Even after nearly a decade of marriage, she had never failed to amaze Negan, leaving him to continuously inquire how lucky of a man he was to have a woman like Lucille, because —

 

she was **A W E S O M E**. 

 

In flesh. 

In blood. 

In those hazel eyes. 

 

That woman was loyal and he trusted her–so much more than it was safe to say. His men knew the line drawn with his wife, and there was nothing more that pissed Negan off than one of his men, a Savior, worshipping his wife on a level more than acceptable. Lucille was his Queen and he, her King—and that woman's fucking touch... the touch of a goddess.

 

"Fucking... _lord_ , Lucille." 

 

For a moment Negan's brain had shut down, and the pure ecstasy of their shape-shifting mouths swirling and puckering with each delicious smack of escaping air overcame his entire body. His breath shivered in the back of his throat, fucking shivered—like no woman was capable of doing, as he exhaled shakily to the swift touch of Lucille within his trousers, groping his member lightly—and still that light touch sent shivers through his nerves, shivers that made his whole body tremble. Lucille submitted to the vibrations of his body and slowly summoned her breast against his bare chest. The heat of his hands electrified the hormones raging through Lucille's body, the slightest scale of his fingers down her silky, polished skin of the back of his wife's upper thighs manifesting a pool of wet within herself—on herself. 

 

But his lips break away, Lucille drawing closer in hunger— _she wanted it_ , but his husky voice filled her ears and annoyance bitterly over took her. 

 

"My dick is so hard right now I could crack steel..." He whispered, "I could wrap it in barbed wire and call it Lucille three."

 

"Show me." She leaned forward eagerly, thirst and hunger in the back of her throat. Negan's hands gripped her hips, squeezing, and with the commanding force of God's grace, her back was propelled to the sheets of the bed and her mouth accepted the undying passion and faith behind his kiss. His back became the anchor for her legs and the delicate gasp of her lips was heard, from the thrust of his hips into her—feeding her, but the tease wasn't enough for Lucille. Her body craved the immortality of his touch, bare and wet. She found her fingers digging into scalp of his graying hair, but the dominating force of Negan's grip drove both her arms by the side of her head. She swallowed thickly as she began to feel the descent of his lips gracing her breast, and her eyes scaled the ceiling–only seeing white. Her toes curled. "Lower..." 

 

But, at the sudden hallow echo of knuckles rapping against the door of the RV Lucille curled her fingers into small knots–agitated, and fucking swearing she had a gun in her hand to pester away whichever Savior that was–most likely someone of non importance like the rest of those sheep, the brain capacity of a goddamn Walker. As much as Lucille wanted it, a quiet pause lingered in the way she called her husband's name, "Negan. Wait. _Perate_!" With a hostile bump of her hips and a rapid turn of her body, Negan's lips sloppily fell off the flesh of her breast, collapsing face-first on the sheets of the mattress.

 

Agitation teased the groan of his lips. 

 

"Just leave that shit alone, Lucille. Probably one of those fuckwits. Lay back down." 

 

There was a rather hint of demand in his tone, and Lucille loved it–craved it when he demanded things of her, but duty was fucking calling and the entry of a bullet into someone's head, the blood pooling in circles around the corspe, like confetti on fucking graduation day; the picture couldn't been painted any better. 

 

Blinds draped from the rod of the RV's skinny window on the left of the bed and allowed in an amber haze of light from the headlights of surrounding trucks, contrasted against the stygian atmosphere of the bedroom. Her feet began to lightly trace the carpentened foot, a quick squint of the eyes warranting Lucille a better view out the window through one of the slits of the blinds–a clear silhouette of a man outside the door, a _Savior_. How disrespectful of Negan's men, their men. Rules were rules. No interruptions unless it was an absolute request from either. And, Lucille didn't remember requesting a goddamn check up from one of the men. 

 

" _No ves que alguien está jodida aquí, gilipollas! Qué diablos está mal con ustedes_!" Her voice overthrown the repetitive knocks at the door, which suddenly stopped from the heat of her words–none which Negan understood. 

 

"Nobody ever understands that fucking ying yang shit you be speakin', hun." He chuckled, full-throated, inviting–it almost reminds her how he was the only person allowed to make such a comment on her lack of English–and as much as she wanted to cook up a solemn attitude, a smile broke through her fragile veneer. 

 

Her head averts from the window, over to her husband sprawled out on the mattress; hands intertwined behind his head, tiny beads of sweat drizzling down his solid chest, and legs spread in invitation–invitation to fuck. Lucille licked her lips, swallowing hard the appetizing dish her husband was currently offering, but she fought the temptation and quietly laughed as she began to saunter over to the side of the bed once again. But, just as Negan could have sworn on the Lord his woman was about to submit herself to him once again, he caught glimpse of the swinging material of a bra in her grasp— _god fucking damn it_ , Negan cursed inwardly. 

 

" _Sus_ ' Simon.." She began to say, pushing her arms through the straps of the bra with an irritated roll of her eyes but–a smile. A smile Negan would never fucking get tired of seeing in his life, a refreshing flash of white his other men didn't have–disgusting pricks could learn a two about hygiene...

 

Negan almost forgot what she said. Oh, yeah, fucking Simon—his right hand man. He began to ponder what in god's name could he possibly want when Negan explicitly recalled a 'Don't fucking disturb me' announcement an hour ago. Little interest in knowing what the matter was, he lazily and irritatedly began to hustle a plain black sleeved shirt over his head of greying midnight hair as he sat up along the edge of the mattress.

 

Suddenly, he noticed the delicate sway of fingers, Lucille's, passing through his scalp. 

 

He looked up, a rarity of a sheepish glint in his eyes–those passages to the gates of hell, she admired the burn behind his stare–on her face like the radiation of the sun's rays. "Now, what could be so incredibly fucking mental with you that you would marry a shitshow guy like me, hun'?" 

 

Her fingers fall to his jaw, fondly trailing the smoky shades of his thickly nested stubble. "You are amazing.." His wife's heavy Colombian accent slurred in his ears, soft porn to his ears. 

 

"You're damn motherfuckin' right I am, woman." He grinned, and leaned forward to stand–like a towering silhouette over his petite wife. His hands over took position along her cheeks, tightly cupped by the vigor of his strength–like fucking paradise, and her eyelids flushed closed and allowed the overpowering gesture of his lips brushing against hers. 

 

"Damn right I am." The slight brush of breeze from his throat tickled her lips, and propelled her eyes to glide open under his grace. 

 

Lucille's stare had fallen upon the empty air. Negan's figure vanished–a broad shoulder lightly thrusted past her as the auditable hefty pad of footfalls decorated the short corridor behind her, and she proceeded to fit on a random shirt over her upper body timely to catch up with her husband's leaned figure against the frame of the front doorway. As Lucille approached the archway, the pure bursting haze of light seized hold of Lucille's temporary ability of vision, holding a hand to her eyes as shade from the headlights until her vision adjusted to the intensity—Simon's voice unknowingly addressed her. 

 

"Night, Lucille." His head modestly bowed.

 

She nodded, eyebrows raised. However, as a more efficient view of Simon was created she became heavily aware of the streaks of blood coating the side of his cheekbone–certainly not his blood–and the empty trail of men in absence behind him—Bud, T., Cam, Neil—

 

_Fuck. Fuck. That couldn't be..._

 

"I'm fucking sorry, care to repeat that again?" Negan's tempered voice averted his wife's attention. His stare was fixed. _Hot_. Blazing in their sockets, and his lips spat the profanity of the devil —word for word. "Really, Simon. I didn't fucking hear you correctly. What did the fuck did you just say to me? 'Cause if I'm fucking deaf—which pretty damn sure I am zero percent of, you just told me more of my men died tonight?" 

 

And to Simon's surprise, Negan laughed. This motherfucker was laughing—softly, with a mild tilt of his head, and his arms curled in a cross across his chest. Violent images cursed his mind–the blood of that Sheriff in pools around the barrel of his barbed wire bat, his baby, the one he called Lucille... and the squelch of that man's brain under the stomp of his boot... _Oh, fucking, yes._

 

"That son of a bitch killed my fucking men..." Negan nodded, repetitively, murderously—and Lucille saw his most inner desires flicker like a film in his irises. 

 

Icy. 

**D E A D**. 

 

Don't get the wrong idea; Lucille didn't fear Negan, not like the Saviors did–as a God, king, and ruler. Cowards, too quick to fall in line, but she didn't blame neither of them. Nobody ever dared or shared a mere notion of crossing Negan. All knew they would share the equal fate of the taste of the rusty barbed wire of Lucille, cracking into their flesh. But, Lucille? She craved the taste of the bat. She lusted the taste of the thorny barbed wire cutting into her tongue as she licked it of its essence. And she knew the only possible way of doing that was to challenge Negan–and, oh she did. 

 

He was **C O N T A G I O U S.**  

 

His laugh. 

The animalistic primal in his eyes. 

The sadistic pleasure oozing off of every godly inch of his body. 

 

Like an _orgasm_ to her hunger. 

 

Little realization in her actions, a chilling laugh rumbled from the back of her throat–like a melodic chorus corresponding with her husband's affrighting cry of laughter. Head titling backwards, smoky puffs of air entered the atmosphere from her lips. Negan's laugh forced harder, eyes wrinkling closed from the force of the guffaws. Lucille intently listened, like her favorite song–he was her favorite song. Her eyes slid to the side of Negan's face, and her vision painfully blurred from the gelid frost breeze of the air, icing her cheekbones to stone—like a snow queen. 

 

"Now that right there..." The laughter had chiseled down to a plain cutting smile across his face, "That right there has got'ta be the fuckin' joke of the century, Simon. But I'll tell you what..."

 

The chiming echo of Negan's boots loudly vibrated in nearby ears as he nonchalantly padded down to the moist, autumn ground. The snapping of twigs faintly rang in the air, the weight of his raggedy torn biker boots crunching down on rotten bark and pines. Instinctively, Simon fell back a step, chin lowering to his chest timidly as he slowly flanked from the ceremonious ground Negan laid his presence on. God forbid if he by accidentally stepped on the toe of the boss's boot or gave off the impression of irritation from his rapid breathing— _god forbid it all_. Eyes unbreakable, Negan began to casually motion for the skinny handle of the compact caliber handgun just barely sticking visibly out from the edge of Simon's leather belt. At the abrupt clank of the gun dancing in Negan's hold, Simon's breath halted, throat tightly squeezing on itself. 

 

"Come here, hun'." Negan said, and without a fleck of hesitantion or need to look at his wife, the soft pitter-patter of her bare feet sinking into the puddles of mud immediately drifted in his ears–like the summoning call of the devil.

 

"Yes—" Her breath was sliced short as she felt the metal of the low-velocity weapon frost the palm of her hand, as if she wasn't cold as a glacier before. Her skin crawled. It was the type of sensation provoked from the foreign touch of a lover–intense and tingling. Her tongue instantly dragged across her dried bottom lip as her fingers quickly curled around the handle, crushing Negan's fingers under her secure grip in the process. He immediately used her grip as an anchor to pull his wife's upper half against himself, breast brushing on his chest as his mouth snuggled near her ear. 

 

His breath stung on her skin. The unknown rambles of Negan's tongue influenced a cross expression on Simon's face—

 

The gelid cock of the handgun suddenly swept cleanly across the bridge of Simon's nose. There's a nauseating crackling of bone. The jagging cut along the Savior's nose-bridge is deep, crimson shades of iron liquid creeping down the sides of his nose. Simon hands had instantly clutched the shattered embodiment that was now his nose–mouth snarling in the form of a groan, mixed with the exaggerated laugh puffing from Negan's lips. 

 

"Well, would you look at my girl go!" His hands shuffled to the thighs of his jeans, sneaking a observant peak of the beautiful river of blood spilling from the wounded Savior. Nothing pleased Negan more than to hear the melodic chime of his wife's sadistically characteristic guffaw—oh, there was no other option but to join in. 

 

"Didn't say to fuckin' hit him that hard, but shit– _this_ –this is better!" He jeered. 

 

Lucille inhaled steadily, beginning to slowly saunter over to the Savior with ease. His body had doubled over to the ground as he cradled his – well, now broken nose. At least, Lucille had assumed. She always did have a nasty right hook. She learned from the best. "Simon." Her voice is soft, alluring as one of her knees reach the ground. Her empty hand trailed the wetness surrounding the bridge of the man's nose. He hesitantly flanked from her touch. A look crossed her face as her teeth snap against each other – _tsk! tsk! tsk!_ The metal harshly pressed against Simon's chest, this time one of her hands curled around the shoulder material of his button down shirt to firmly root him in one single place. Her eyes burned his face – no longer sweet and alluring. 

 

"Avenge. Them. _Perra_!" 

 

Her lips deeply caved, the animalistic rack of her teeth conjured tightly in a snarl—a beast prowling behind those hazel pits of blazing fire. Beautiful in the eyes of a mad man. 

 

Simon's hands fell from his nose. Fear loomed in his widely dilated pupils. Grip fumbling, he quickly, but wearily searched for a secure hold on the handle of the gun—where Lucille's hand still remained rested. When he tried for it, her hold hadn't busted. 

 

"One of their cabezas–clean off." The index finger of her free hand softly crossed the greasy flesh of the Savior's neck, "You _tienen 'hasta_ sun rise, Simon. No later..."

 

Lucille's chest heaves—lips still poised open to deliver another harsh river of words if what she said didn't stick in the Savior's mind. God forbid if she had to repeat herself. Everything was clear. Simon understood, perfectly. It's written in his widened eyes–barely able to comprehend, but that didn't ease the cognition of the woman. Her hand suddenly numbs from the grip around the gun, allowing it to fumble in Simon's bloodied palms as she stretches back to feet, quiet as a mouse. Unusual for the mouthy woman. Twisting, she shares one longing stare with her husband. The lines of that man's face—absolutely beautiful. Solemnity lingers in her eyes, a tornado brewing in those hazel eyes. She feels her chest tighten into a knot like a cramp and a quiet rage builds inside–a nudge of her head signals for Negan to follow back into the RV. 

 

From behind, the door groans at the hinges—the rusty metallic frame slamming loudly against the doorway's aged frame. The noise brought a chill to the spine of Lucille, knowing Negan must have been standing there, eyes melting into the nape of her neck like the needles of a piercing–studying and anticipating, as Lucille silently scavenged through the cluttered items in the wooden cabinets hanging above; _Fuck. Where are you?_ She thought hard. Clashing noises lightly drifted throughout the smothering atmosphere. Occasionally a pot or two would come tumbling from one of the shelves within, rolling and stumbing at the tip of Negan's boots. His arms neatly crossed over one another on top his chest, accepting the silence given to him; until his wife's fucking charade was up. Tick Tock. 

 

Lucille desperately gestured around the clutter of handguns and loose bullets, until there was an alarming clank within the palm of one of her hands. Metal iced her palm; the _22 pistol revolver_ discreetly hidden under the wrapped fingers of her hand, a soft plush echo perking one of Negan's brows upwards — _where the fuck did she think she was going?_ Little observation, Negan hadn't noticed the Chestnut leather material hanging from the tips of his wife's fingers, swaying as she hurriedly fumbled through the top cabinets–to the bottom cabinets compacted kitchen area. Items clustered in her grasp; bullets, duct tape, and well —whatever the fuck Lucille needed. She didn't need permission, the thing Negan installed within his men's daily recollection. 

 

"Uh, hun' do I need to pay a reminder that shit is mine? And when I say 'that shit is mine' I fuckin' mean explicitly, clear cut, your name is not written on it."

 

"Neither is your's Negan." 

 

Oh, there goes that challenge, again. 

Negan **S M I L E D**. 

 

His boots padded down the thin hall, sludge abrading from the soles and spiral motifs imprinting on the faded emerald carpet. Every step he trod let out a low, echoing creak from the weakened floorboards underneath the rug, which sought to slowly bring the grace of his hands against her bent over hips— _god fuckin' christ_ , she was beautiful. At the sensation of humidity breathing unto her body from behind, Lucille's back suddenly snapped straight, like a ruler, and hastily spun on her heel–face in collison with the sturdy muscles of her husband's chest, a toxicity of vile ash and smoke suffocating her lungs as she inhaled a quick breath from the shock of Negan's fingers squeezing unto the thin bone of her hips. 

 

His eyes burned down at her, "Keep talkin' to me in that fuckin' language and I might have to punish you..." His tongue clicked fleshly, "... _Personally_." 

 

Usually she'll phrase a smile seductively sweet that would usher in a blanket of a sea of chills down his trousers, but her lips sizzled into an uncharacteristic mood he couldn't pin, and the nails hammering his hands to her hips budged as she began to shuffle past him, shoulder lightly colliding against his upper arm. 

 

A mutter of mispoken words escaped her lips, "Do not f'ack with me, Negan. No' now."

 

Negan's face slightly twisted, a form of less humor, but a pulpy laugh continued to crawl from the ladder of his throat, "Now hold your fuckin' horses, sweetheart. Weren't you just begging me to go balls deep in you earlier? I mean..." The laugh gargled louder, "Make up your fuckin' mind, hun'. This ain't no ' _You show me yours, I'll show you mine_ '. Once it's out, hun' it's going to fuckin' play."

 

Lucille scoffed–the raise of the 22 pistol was automatic, without regulated thought, finger already enclosed around the trigger. The tip of the handgun, or nozzle pressed at the center of Negan's forehead, fully loaded. His hands appropriately raised, as one would do in a situation like this he thought, and that fucking smile of his plagued the lines of his face. But, Lucille wasn't laughing. 

 

"Bud, Neil, T., Cam are dead!" She chewed the words on her tongue, eyes roaming the face of the man she loved: hell with him, "My men. Good men. Fucking figured if someone want job done right, then do it your fucking-selve," The nozzle of the gun dragged to the gap of Negan's lips, "That not what you told me?" 

 

"Clear–cut–fuckin' crystal, hun'. But, yet again that could be 'cause I love a woman with a mouth just as dirty as mine." He winked. 

 

The gun retracted from his face, a fragile grin seeping across her face at just the mention of dirty mouth from Negan's lips. Mi hombre. Her stare faltered, regrouping on the backpack as the pistol slid through the unzipped passage to the big pocket. 

 

Few seconds pass before she decides to speak again, " _Tengo un plan_."

 

His eyes roll mockingly, composing himself to rest casually against the spacey wall of the RV, "English—" 

 

"I have plan," She tried to say. 

 

Something shifted behind Negan's light brown irises, discreetly hidden behind his veneer of a sheepish chuckle, "It involves stealing half of my shit and pointing a goddamn fuckin' gun in my face? That's pretty motherfuckin' mental, especially coming from my wife, wouldn't you think?" He clicked his tongue, joshly. 

 

A tenuous smile hafly lifted her cheekbones high, humored by how Negan always found a way to jest— _how could I ever be serious?_ She thought, a shake of her head in response to the voice flipping through her mind. But, still. She yanked the hilarity from the lines of her face and cached the gleam of her stare underneath the flap of her plump eyelashes. "Our top Saviors are gone," She said, as if her husband hadn't heard it the first time, "The same man from last time spilt Savior blood. And you stand here to mock me like _un idiota_? Is that what this is? Men lay their lives down for you and in return you do n'athing? The infamous Negan —" 

 

He heatedly intervened. "—Fuckin' excuse me, but I ain't promise those fuckwits eternal life as if I'm the God almighty. Shit. Save that scripture bullshit for church. Nobody is safe!" His voice ascended beyond ceremonous grounds, "Not your mother, father, fuckin' sister or brother—not even the old fuckin' hag baring a shotgun. Everyone has a role and everyone contributes their part, Lucille."

 

The more her husband had rambled, the more Lucille regretted not giving—how Negan would put it—a'fuck. There was no argument. Her words had a sincere finality to them, "This is my contribution." The bookbag wavered in her grasp, and Negan's blazing stare snapped to the sudden wavering material—igniting it on fire with just a blink of his eyes. 

 

Negan's brain had hotwired far too hastly to comprehend, and his lips immediately formed the refusal to her statement, "And I don't recall asking you what your fuckin' contribution was and on top of that—no. You ain't leaving, point fuckin' blank. Need it said in Español?" 

 

A sea of much desired words burned on the tip of her tongue as the lids of her eyes sizzled down into tight slits–Negan just didn't get it, and it melted her heart within because of it–made her furious. Why didn't he get it? After everything they've been through? It was never about the Saviors, as much as she said it was–their love was never that simple.

 

The bookbag once in her hand cascaded from her grasp unto the ground, the sour-unsweetned glaze in her husband's eyes weakening her knees, like a venomous wasp stinging you paralyzed. Each step token, within her chest the fire gradually frizzled and the familiarity of tingling butterflies flapping returned as she allowed the honeycombs of her irises to feed into him, to feed into the irate swirl of his eyes. 

 

His breathing heavily puffed out through the tube of his heaving chest—almost grazing her cheekbone from the enclosing distance. She looks up at him from under her lashes, " _Mi amor_..." Her hand finds the side of his cheek, fondling the remaining stems of his nested stubble. The look in her eyes was purely angelic for the devilish fire blazing within like the raw flames of hell's fire, and in that instance his hand hesitants to reach for her arm, to touch her delicate flesh–frightened of burning her. How could he have said all those things? _So fuckin' stupid..._

 

"Because _you_ are my love," Lucille's voice pulls him back into the trapping swirls of her eyes, "I vowed to you my life. And you vowed to me your life, 'till death do us part. Which means, I have a duty as your wife and a wife should always protect her king —" 

 

Negan stubbornly interjected, "Not the way it's suppose to fuckin' go–"

 

Lucille shook her head sharply, "Who are you to say you aren't next, Negan? What's stopping that Sheriff from killing you?" 

 

"One of fuckin' most and certainly above all—I'm Negan. Pay to remind second of all, you got to be one stupid ass fuckhead to mess with my establishment I have built. My men might be a bunch of fuckwits—no brain ass motherfuckers, but they're mine. They belong to me," The fire had rekindled behind his stare as he tore her bodily frame to pieces under his stare, "And so do you. I defend what's mine, Lucille."

 

"Then defend it!" She found herself pointlessly shouting into her husband's chest, difficulty brewing within her to return a firm glance back into those eyes belonging to the devil. 

 

The top of her head was scorched under the flaming intensity of his eyes, " _Not. yet_." He carefully uttered, assuring he drawled each word with a sense of finality to it. The tickle of his breath was gelid on her, in contrast to the flame dancing in the center of his pupils. 

 

Lucille lowly muttered under her breath, words of pure agitation, and her fingers once again found the leather strap of the bookbag at her feet. Her eyes gradually lifted from his chest, a breath sucking from the gap between her lips, anguish mirroring like glaciers in her eyes, but she could never overcome how handsome her man was—how beautiful. Her fingers itched, like the throb in her heart. 

 

"Then I will. I will do what you won't. For our people, and I pray to _mi madre_ for _you_ if you even think of stopping me Negan. I am goin' to do this, either way. For the Saviors. For the man I love more than anything in this world. I'm gonna go kill that son of bitch."

 


	2. Chapter 2

**A LONG WAY FROM HOME**

**CHAPTER ONE  
**

 

_Never forget where you come from,_

_but_

_Never feel compelled to go back._

 

 

“Last night some prick thought it'd be a real fuckin' cool joke if he slaughtered some of my men, more than I'm comfortable with and—” One of Negan's gloved fingers stroked the thick bits of his salt and pepper groomed beard, tugging to sterilize the hilarity curve to his lips, “—I don't know if any of you fuckwits noticed, but I ain't laughing. That shit has fell flat and that son of bitch has lost his chance at hitting a home run with an Oscar!” The barbed wire bat _Lucille_ abruptly sliced into the thin air with the sharp curve of Negan's arms —his tongue suddenly clicked dramatically as he performed a theatrical version of a home run. “But, not to fuckin' worry,” He altered _Lucille's_ wooden handle over one of the extensive shoulders of his leather jacket, “Blood will be spilt in the name of the Saviors. The day of reckoning will fuckin' come, ladies and gentlemen! You reap what you sow, and most certainly they will!” 

 

The last words turned sour in Lucille's head: yes, they will. Hearkening to the vows of her husband's speech to the Saviors teased her mentally, deeply hankering for the wild taste of that Sheriff's blood under the sole of her boots and on the tip of her tongue— _what did he even taste like?_ Lucille pondered. _Probably shit_ , she jeered internally. Lucille steels; her thoughts fading to the abyss of her mind, inclining to the gruff of Negan's voice obscured by the sturdy leather blockage of material from the gas mask tightly secured around the thin structure of her face. Eyes hidden, the tip of her desert boot thrusted the keen edge of her machete upright into the air, handle twisting in her grip as she began slowly strolling across the morning smut of the seasonal grass from their randevu point in the forest.

 

"They will," She firmly nodded and began touring around the circle of men aligned in front of their leaders, “So listen close Saviors, and listen real f'acking good,” The machete poked at the center of a Savior's chest, a scruffy haired guy, “We're the big swinging putas of this world, have been for a very long time, but it seems..." She swiftly swung the machete through the stiff air and hooked it underneath another Savior's chin, eyes peering so deeply into the man's she could sense the fear, "...People forget that. Saviors are dead. So now we are goin' have to swing harder and faster until we take off like a god damn _helicopter_ and blow these fuckers away! And by the time we even get to that cherry on top, those pricks are gonna wish they were face down in that dirt surrendering...” 

 

**H E L L** will rise.

**B L O O D** will paint these roads. 

The **S A V I O R S** will win. 

**N E G A N** will win.

 

"Saviors!"

All men and women chanted.

 

The incantations filled the atmosphere with such exotic energy and malicious thought, just the breath of victory catapulted a gruesome smile across Lucille's face, and she retracted the thick corroded blade of the machete to the leather holster on the waistband of her belt—it allowed her arms to rise from the sides of her burgundy wool blanket coat, arms outstretched to feed into the _Saviors_ chants as she spun in a steady circle, inhaling the morning fumes. That's all she heard in her ears, the shouts of victory and hope, hope for a _new world order_. Her arms eased back down, and on the sudden turn of her heel, gravel and filth crunched under her boots —stare briefly locking hold with Negan's—she grins brighter than all the neon lights racing outside of their tiny, warm, dark little part of the enclosed universe. It's shining more than the limelights above New York, more gleamier than the pepper of the Milky-way.

 

_Fuck_. Negan breathed in and out, listening to the thick chants surrounding them both, staring into the held prison of those gelid, honey castle of his wife's eyes. The most beautiful eyes ever. Oh, and those curves —it doesn't last more than a few seconds though, as Lucille promptly spins back on her heel to the Saviors to ease the volume of their voices to not garner unwanted attention from the dead. The chants soon died down as well as her smile. “That being said—I won't be here for the next couple of days. Don't ask why but as long as all you are concerned, I have errands. You are all to report to Negan as per usual. Routines stay the same. Orders are to _stay the same_. Any reports of disobedience comes straight back to me upon my return. Digest it, swallow the pill, _just do it_ and as long as we all have an equal understanding amongst one another, the Saviors will thrive, the Sanctuary will **THRIVE**." A curt grin squeezed onto her lips, just a _small_ one. "Now —” 

 

“ **EVERYBODY MOVE OUT THE WAY**!” 

The disembodied clamor of a distinct voice rolled from behind the sturdy encircled wall of Saviors. 

It was Simon.

 

Lucille's head slowly tilted to the side of her shoulder, eyebrows critically furrowed against one another, and a trail of sweat wetting her temple. The disrespect; oh, Lucille absolutely hated disrespect. The tilt of her head cocked an explicit view of Negan's right hand man as his forced entry of words led a broad spreading gap of the wall of Saviors as they ambled from his path. His presence commanded something; something Lucille didn't like— _hated_. Saviors flanked from his footpath, as if he was some sort of God, the ground he walked was celestial. Only Negan commanded such a presence. Who the hell? Lucille's fingers slipped through a thin cranny of the gas mask located under her chin, pulling at the material until it detached —her face long, eye sockets condensed as her irises melted freely into Simon's figure; the bridge of his nose bandaged, denim fabric of his button down shirt bloodied—dried blood. As her eyes strictly laid on his face, a shot a cheeky grin, quick to fade on the first stretching word leaving her mouth. 

 

“Símon,” 

Her voice was **S O U R**.

“Lucille.” 

 

“Esta sun rise,” She objected her eyes briefly to the sky—through the canopy of evergreen trees, the number one thing that seemed to be healthy and intact nowadays. The halo of golden rays penetrated her ashen flesh, so warm and caressing. She inhaled sharply and returned her eyes to Simon's face, an automatic trigger to hoist the keen blade of the machete into the palm of her hands. The way Simon looked at her—such fuel of hatred. She always knew he liked Negan more, saw him as the more fitted, one-thone kind of leader. Simon's skin crawled and oh boy, did it make her smile even more. “Dónde está mi cabeza?” She asked, calmly.

 

His eyes cuffed unto hers and his hand slowly motioned behind him as if he had all the time in the world—which Lucille distasted, but played into. It characteristically emerged in the subtle grind of her teeth. _Puta_ , She cursed mentally. Simon knew. A smile itched on his face, but he didn't dare give into it. Last thing he wanted, nor needed was to be limping around with a hacked off limb. Paying little attention, Lucille shortly realized the appearance of a brown clothed bag in Simon's grip—what appeared to be blood soaking through the thin fabric at the foot of the bag, and Lucille cocked her head further to the side, eyebrows dramatically shifting and lips shaped into a comical O. 

 

“This what you wanted, ain't it?” He hurled the bag into the air, timely enough for Lucille's hands to cap around the fabric. Just by touch, her hand was instantly painted in the color of **DEATH** ; an odor too putrescent for the human body to intake—but Lucille clawed her nails within the bag to the scalp of the butchered cabeza, blonde clamps of ichor pinching under her nails as the head basically hung in the air of her grip. 

 

She inhaled, earning a queering look of judgment from Simon. “Beautiful,” she said, a mouth-watering grin wiggling her lips.

 

“You did good, Símon.” Negan's tone was awfully calm as well, only observing how his wife would handle the situation with a reclined stare; it was _always_ a treat for him. He did love to hear her filthy mouth and god-filthy actions live up front. Nothing pleased him more, and that was shown in his words when he mocked the tasteful inflection of Lucille's way of speaking. His boots began moving through the muck of the morning turf, a whistle sizzling from the honey of his lips, a momentary swing of Lucille at the butchered man head. “That's gotta be one ugly son-of-a-bitch. I mean would you look at it? No wonder you covered that shit up." He tuned a light laugh, audible in the background.

 

Lucille tried not to smile, really tried. Refocusing she said, “ _Now_ ,” and served the butchered head a second glance before returning her eyes to Simon with a sudden echo of distaste within them, “Feed it to the walkers.” She blandly ordered, no tone, and no attitude. Lucille blindly tossed the head in the direction of Simon. His hands fiddled into the air—blood smearing on one of his favorite shirts—now he simply smelt like pure shit. She was ready to turn back to her husband, when all of sudden, she heard Simon's voice once again, and stopped suddenly to shift those honey eyes of hers that were now encased in flames of fury.

 

“Are you kiddin'?” Simon suddenly fumbled the question out of cage of irritation and rage built inside of him, unaware of the consequences. “Do you have any idea what my men had to go through just to get that piece of shit for you?” He looked over at Negan—as in plead for his wife to not too this, and in that second a glint of something Negan did not like surfaced in his right  hand man's eyes— _disobedience_. 

 

There was a **F L A M E** in his eyes.

 

Now, who the fuck did this fucker think he was? 

Surely replaceable. 

Shit, he had Dwight back at the sanctuary. 

He didn't need this bullshit. 

 

But, Lucille's hand yielded Negan from any sense advancement burning in her husband's mind. Her touch was like ice itself, paralysis to his bones. His next move rendered under her godly control—a venomous gleam to her eyes he'd only seen on notable occasions and boy, was it just starting. The machete, freshly tight in her palm, swiftly lifted and pinched at the stubbly skin of Simon's chin, beckoning his eyes to devour hers. “Escucha' puta," Her voice was so soft, calmed, but held hell's fury within it and her the lids of her eyes narrowed tightly, "Do you have any f'acking idea what those men would do to you if you talk to me like that again?" The keen edge of the blade directed his teary gaze past one of her shoulders, where every Savior was seen up and arms with a weapon. The horror in his eyes; she licked her lips at, chuckling lightly. "So a piece of shit like you, I will carve into tiny pieces or better yet I'll have you take a knife to yourself and one by one... you'll personally feed every limb there is to your body to the walkers. Starting with the thing you love the most..." It wasn't until the blade left his chin that Simon felt the razor tip press roughly into the crotch regional of his khakis. "Now, **DO I LOOK LIKE I'M KIDDING**?” 

 

By now, the tip of the blade had begun moving slowly around his crotch, deep into the smooth seams of his pants. Each second he wasted, each second he didn't respond, the tip dug deeper and deeper, until she finally felt the tight seams break—that's when his face broke out into a cold sweat, scrambled tightly in a formation of pain as he tried to scurry back to lessen the pressure of the blade, but Lucille hated his defiance and protest; hooking a forceful hand into the shoulder of his shirt to keep him _still_. But, he didn't seem to cope with that _notion_ very well. She sighed, "Keep scrambling, and the knife goes deeper —hey, you wanna hear a story?" The question was too quick, too random to register within his head and his lips ended up rambling to a confused ' _what_ '—to that Lucille smiled. "In my country, when fuckers like you commit horrendous crimes, no matter how horrible or how deep they went down that rabbit hole, there is something called redemption through pain. By the jury, they lose the one thing most men would lose their minds without. Wanna know what that is?"

 

“No!”

 

"Oh come on, Simon." There was a dull roll of her eyes, "Take a lucky guess... for your queen." She pouted.

 

Simon continued shaking his head. “No! I'm sorry! I'm sorry–just sto–argh!” 

 

She dug the blade extensively until she finally felt the scrape of smooth flesh, a howl larger than a wolf's erupted; she could of sworn she even heard a few birds flap their wings from the tree's branches—they must have sensed the fear as well, and that didn't construct any desire to stop from Lucille. She just kept going and going no matter what until she heard what she wanted, “I. Didn't. F'acking. Hear. You.” Lucille pronounced slowly, **DANGEROUSLY**. 

 

Simon shut his eyes under testimony, “I'm sorry, Lucille. I'm—I'm sorry. I fucking apologize.”

 

A smile sizzled unto her long face, subtle as ever and the icy texture of the blade slipped from the crotch of the Savior's pants, a sigh of relief from the man's lips as his head titled back to escape the horror of this woman's gaze. But even then, her voice was soft as ever when she finally chose to address the Savior again. “Gracias, Simon. I'm glad we were able to come to an understanding. _Now_ —" With hand still knotted into the shoulder of his shirt, she pulled, and luckily he wasn't too afraid to fight back as she hustled the man over to the rest of the Saviors. "Gather your most dependable men. It's time.” She looked over at Negan, that quiet gaze of his—she hated how uncharacteristically quiet he had had become ever since she explained to him what she planned on doing. Even if he didn't say a word to her, which he didn't, not even in reaction to what she just did to his right hand man, she still nodded at him. “We're going on a mission.”

 

All she could summon to thought was that Sheriff. 

What he must of looked like, 

how he dressed, 

his voice...

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two hours equally having past in a trapped vehicle with Simon, all Lucille could strangely ponder as she sat in the back seat, head leaned against the leather broad shoulder of her husband, was the thought of: _who knew Simon had actual use?_ To her at least. From all the things he was to Negan; puta, errand boy, poor excuse of a Savior —okay, so possibly those were the selective words Lucille had nitpicked in the back of her mind during the _dragged_ trunk drive to — _Where the fuck am I?_  She didn't even have a damn clue. All she could see was the fast moving scenery of the forest, tall evergreen trees, healthy as ever in the days of the dead. Cars broken down on the sideline of the road. No survivors whatsoever. Not even the damn afternoon sky looked beautiful anymore. But, wherever they were—a road off the main highway about a mile back from their rondevu in the forest, it must have been the correct place considering how quick Negan was to put a halt to everything under Simon's direct words of “ _This is it_ ”  to “ _They should have passed down this road if they wanna get to Alexandria_.” He actually had valuable information. Ha, she thought. Who knew again?

 

 

 “I think this is it.” Lucille heard Simon say through the soft slam of the truck passenger side door as the soles of her desert boots touched the ground, but even then in that very second she stood, something twisted in her stomach. She tried not to think on it, seeing it as nothing but an unfamiliar feeling of warning, but somehow she found her eyes shifting back over her shoulder where Negan began exiting the truck; a hard slap on her bottom as he wandered past her, smirk shifting the hairs of his salt and pepper beard. The feeling in her stomach vanished—it had to be last minute regret, missing him if she was gone for too long. She tried to tell herself over and over. _This is a necessity_.

 

There was an overview of evergreen canopy trees surrounding the scarce amount of Saviors—they stood tall, at least five feet higher than the rest of everyone. That was a sight Lucille could never get tired of and the smell of the maple sap still oozing from the bark of some trees. It was amazing to her how nature never ceased to die, even when the world around it was. And it was quiet that afternoon. Not a single moan of a nearby walker—just the gentle bristle of the wind carrying the mucky brunette strands of her hair across her face. Today was going to be good. The beat of the wind just told her. Standing there, she realized that's all she was doing— _standing_. Not walking or anything. She tried to think on what the hell was wrong with her, but at the call of Simon's voice, she stopped.

 

“There,” Simon persisted to point out in the foggy horizon of the road. The gesture provoked to Lucille to survey ahead, finally moving to get a better look at what she was supposed to be looking at. She saw the exact same thing she saw the moment she exited the damn truck—trees and more fucking trees, and dirt from the road. What the hell am I suppose to be looking at? She hated feeling clueless, especially as the leader of the fucking Saviors, but then she thought this was more of Negan's job then it was hers.

 

“I don't see anything.” Maybe she had put too much hope in Simon. 

 

“That's because you're not looking in the...” Out of nowhere, those large calloused hands of his stirred the woman's shoulders in the steady direction of the left, “...right place.”

 

It was the left strip of the thruway that wasn't quite explicit to the eyes unless you looked fairly close—the trees were attenuated, thinned and moderately gave off the appearance of thousand of aging alders fighting to stand tall in the face of starving Walkers, who'd probably would chew at the bark on occasion. But, the important thing was Lucille could see through the branches. “Another road,” She concluded, and gliding her eyes back over to Simon again she almost forgot the feeling of the slimy print of his hands on her shoulder blades—Instantly, she slithered her shoulders free. "Mhm, I see it now." She dismissed fairly quickly and moved further away from the Savior, beginning to swing her machete freely through the air to occupy her mind.

 

Simon discreetly rolled his eyes at her response, “When Bud and the rest of 'em got blown, that group was headed down this road,” He motioned to the ground their boots accompanied, then lifted his finger to the left strip of the road once again, "Must have crossed on turnpike ahead to get to the other side. That's the way to _Alexandria_...” Slowly, Simon's voice began to slither to the back of her mind — _blah blah blah_ —and she snuck a longing glance over one of the shoulders to her wool jacket. She blinks slowly, studying Negan's ogle-filled, featureless face, trying to pull out a thought running through that man's head; a chaos of conflicting thoughts.

 

Slowly, she moves to him.

 

“So, what'cha think?” Negan asked slowly, trying to acquire the idea of sanity to why his wife would ever trust to do such a fucking stupid ass plan as the one she had mingling in that diseased scalp of hers. Why would he even trust her? Negan was going to let her slip through his grip once again—Lucille was a Savior, which meant she was entitled to him and only him. Not some prick of a Sheriff. He was **BITTER** as hell, sure. Behind his sheepish smirk, the only way he knew to hide his thoughts, he bit his lip. That silence took over him once again, and he slowly shook his head. "This ain't right, Luce." He kept his voice under a whisper. “Y'a know,” Lucille discerned Negan's presence scooch awfully close to her side. His voice a faint whisper on her ear, “It's never too fuckin' late to turn around and stop this horse shit. The plan gonna fall flat on its ass and we got a place to run —business, and it is business that's fucking callin', Lucille.” Negan's hand moves from his side to caress his wife's upper arm, softly, but carrying a tight clutch. His face slowly stirred in front of her so she was more than obligated to stare at him—a deadly look warranting her. “Do not make me do this. Lookin' all bat shit for the next couple of weeks _because_ of your ass —because of your stupid ass plan—”

 

Lucille's voice suppressed his, “Don't be so f'acking selfish. If you are going to insult my plan—to **PROTECT** _you_ , then get out of my way, Negan.”

 

The hazel combs of her eyes

**M E L T E D**

into his face.

It was the fire of her heart.

The love she had for that man

that drove her to such idiotic heights.

 

And, Negan?

 

“Well, excuse the fuck of out of me!” His hands escaped into the air, a mockery of surrender as his tongue trailed along the bottom lip of his freshly formed smile. “Damn darling. Ease that fucking... mouth...  of your's a little,” Negan teased with a roam of his eyes on the rosy pink of her lips, a scrunch of his face in something he'd only give to a Savior who had broken the rules; those dark pools of warning that were his eyes. Then quickly it's gone, as if it hadn't been there the first time around and is replaced with this perfect shift of glee, “I was only joking, baby. Lighten the fuck up. I know why you're doing this—to protect good old papa from the big bad wolf of the apocalypse, aye?”

 

A smile rushed unto her face. It took every speck within her to not let it come through, but how could she resist? _That big idiot_. The thought just reminded her of how much she was going to miss his stupid comments and that smug look on his face because she knew he could have anything he wanted. But, he had to know she was doing this for him and for her people; that's what was important the most. Her man. And she would dive into death itself if it meant it would save him. These thoughts that linger in her head, prove a frown to grow upon her face, but she already feels his hand on the side of her face, body warmth colliding against one another. The frown is instantly gone, dismissed to the back of her mind, and a chuckle vibrates from under her breath, “Are you going to give me a kiss goodbye or am I going to have to get it myself?” 

 

“I love a woman of demand.” Negan wraps his fingers tight around her forearms, caught by the wisp of Lucille's breath on his lips—so icy that he stilled for a full moment. All he saw was her eyes, hazel honeycombs, and sweetened by God's touch. The hazel swallowed him, until he swallowed her lips with his— **POWERFUL** and **HARSH OF MEMORY**. He couldn't fathom the thought of what happen if he never seen her again. His Lucille. Negan's lips created a gap of breath and his hand drifted up the spine of neck, where it laid to rest. He didn't have to say _I love you_. They both already knew. “Never forget where you come from, Lucille.” He said, those words serious as ever.

 

She replied, trying to hold dear to the touch of his fingers and the hellish warmth of his body. “I won't,” and she pulled back regretfully—an empty gap lingered between the two Saviors. A gap that she wish she knew would have been permanent before hand. But, saving her man is all that's on her mind. “Now hit me as hard as you can.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UH OH, Lucille has a plan and part of it will be put into play in the next chapter. Ever wonder how she gets into Alexandria in the first place? Wait and find out in the next chapter! Lucille is bringing the chaos with her!
> 
> COMMENT! KUDOS! 
> 
> Love YALLLLLLL


	3. Chapter 3

 

**WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING**

**CHAPTER TWO  
**

 

 

_Let The Games Begin_

 

 

It was a different world beyond the walls of Alexandria. People. Different people. Abraham could recall the first time he's actually seen somebody other than his own reflection on the stony rust molding the glass of Retail stores he used to scavenge. All the little things he picked up from time to time. Night and day. All the people he had the chance of coming across. Always in the back of his mind, the choice was made up; whether they were in truth, _good_ or _evil_. But, that was all about to change. The scream was in the pure form of a knife's edge. Sharp and concentrated, crackling through the insentiently still atmosphere; loud enough to part the seas and cause an abnormality to nature that birds vamoosed from the branches of their homes. As if the devil herself had stepped foot on the Earth's soil. 

 

 

Because,

the devil was coming

**HOME**.

 

 

“Hey ...” Sasha calls. She thumped the gas peddle of the truck with the bottom of her combat boot carefully, sure not to create an after affect of screeching tires to startle anything away or attract unnecessary attention. Eyebrows softly fading alertingly, the old military laden vehicle grounded to a steady halt in the middle of the highway. Was that a scream? She thought. The muscles in her neck tense as she looks around expectantly at the dried shrubs of trees on the sides of the highway – what does she expect to find? She forces her ear closer to the left of the truck, the window ajarred on Daryl's side and he shiftingly glances at her oddly, face hidden behind the back of his hand silently, but eyes beholding questions. The air is still, untouched by the gentle breeze tickling the insides of her ears. Just the wind.

 

 

“What we stoppin' for?” Daryl inquired, voice barely auditable, but a quiet grunt. He doesn't hear a reply from Sasha, and turns to notice her persistent interest on what was beyond the trees; there weren't any signs of walkers, no abnormal moans, just tree bark.

 

 

_I know I heard something_ , Sasha overules to herself. She holds to the thought and lifts the nail of her index finger and stretched it past the barrier of the window, stare firmly fixed. She pondered what was truly out there. “What's beyond those trees?” She asks.

 

 

Abraham was quick to reply, his eyes holding her steadily, “What–” 

 

 

“Living situations, camps ...” She clarified, her eyes edging out to blackness. “... Just thought I heard something. Like a–”

 

 

The scream came again, desperate, terrified ...

**H U M A N.**  

 

 

A woman, boring soft sepia eyes of brown, appeared from the devil's darkness.

 

 

Never had Abraham seen a more beautiful woman. Her hair was a rich shade of umber. It flowed in ravel waves to adorn her wicked, lustrous-like flesh. Her eyes shun gleamingly, framed by long black vulosouus eyelashes. Straight nose and thin lips. Beautiful. Had she spoke, the woman would have instantly took any man's breath away. Sasha's eyes remain impervious, drawn to the woman alone, and not in awe for the woman's remarkable beauty, but because of the abnormal hues contorting the woman's complexion. Her lips were of garish purple splotches and the underlining of her left eye socket more grayish and pallid looking than the rest, bare and naked – roughly the size of a fist.

 

 

“Please ...” The woman muttered, voice breaking. Her heart sounds like it's coming undone in her throat and Sasha couldn't help the pained expression that over comes the sturdy ensemble of her facial features. What she really wants to do is clogged in her throat. The sound of the woman's plead shakes Sasha to an utter complete pause. The thundering thumps of the strange woman's hands on the hood of the laden truck bolt Sasha awake in a millisecond. “Please! They are coming!” She's practically begging, and Sasha for the first time heard the thick accent purring from the lady's voice. 

 

 

_They're coming_. Sasha grasps on to the words. She blinks, unsure of what to do, but analyzes the stony, iced gloss to this woman's eyes – overthrown in absolute fear, and the woman is staring into the eyes beholding her face, a desperate wail mouthing from her lips as she bangs again on the hood of the laden truck. But, the gnarling moan of a walker steels everyone's mind elsewhere. It's fast approaching. Staggering on a limp. Skin decomposing, melting off the side of its face. Blindsiding the woman.

 

 

The blood void from everyone's faces – their complexion melted and whiteblanched, eyes rigid ice. Before anyone was even aware of fabricating a conscious decision, Abraham's long legs had pounced furiously on the highway tracks. Sasha called after him, “Abraham!” She rapidly crawled across the truck's seats as her knees dug into the crappy, leather fabric, hands sprawling to keep grasp of the dense seekins precision full auto .233 rifle. Her feet hit the ground, hard. 

 

 

A sudden thunderous clap halts the rate of her heart, and for a mere second the complexion of her face ashens out like grains of snow on a wintery day. Her eyes flutter rapidly, reflecting darkly what that sound could of been. Many things. Too many things. “Abraham–” Another shot whizzes off her voice. Too many bullets for one walker. “ **ABRAHAM**!” She shouts again. Panic settling, legs pained from the determination jolting them alert, Sasha gallops around the enormous structure of the truck. Her rifle clanked from the jittery offset of the palm of her hands, a tad sweaty, as her combat boots rained hell on the terrain of the highway. Smoke suddenly evaded her nostrils. Rotten, and stomach wrenching. Tendrils of it swirls involuntary into her lungs, burning the urge to collapse on all fours and cough out her own bodily intestines. It obscured the highway like fog in an alley during a humid night.

 

 

“Oh, my god–” Sasha gasped, the immediate inhale of the residual smoke violently intoxicating her lungs, until a hefty cough puffed from her lips – non stop. Quickly, she forced the collar of her shirt over the bridge of her nose, the scent of mud replacing the putrid stench instead. She slowly breathed, eyelashes fluttering through the obscurity. One of her boots drags unsurely forward, a slight scrape sounding off – as the abrupt din of a man's grunt, her thin fingers clenched the body her rifle tightly. “Abraham?” She calls out, loudly. Another grunt follows. This time a female's wail. Sasha bolts forward. The sound of a body hitting the tarmac hard whips her attentive to the left of her rib cage, her feet sharply skid to a halt, the smoke vaporizing. What she sees steals the oxygen from her lungs ...

 

 

A fist is suddenly coming at the face of Abraham, the outline of his broad shoulders clear to her eyes. The swing was quite hard for the strength of a woman that size, fairly falling a few inches under the man's chin. Abraham had been crippled with coughs, face ashened scarlet, tears of blood leaking from a corner just below the thick hairs of his eyebrow. The woman's fist had connected again. Sasha didn't know what to do, her eyebrows narrow for a split second and fall back. Who the hell was this woman? The way she calculated and anticipated each blow. The strength behind each strike and punch. How heavily armed she truly was, bearing an actual gas mask over her face to protect her from the intoxicating fumes. _This was an ambush_ , Sasha realized.

 

 

Hands numb, she still feels the weight there; the weight of her seekins precision rifle, frigid in her palms, but as her thin finger encircles around the trigger, it becomes more ambient, a part of herself. A gush of warmth returns to her hands, like home, and Sasha blinks with awareness, feet shifting on the tarmac beneath her. Time bites by, and she doesn't know what the hell she is waiting for. In the blink of an eye, Sasha rose the rifle to the lining height of her skinny shoulders. Her world looks like the thin screen of her bedroom's window, littered with blurring, speeding dots of black and blue. Smoke is lightly swirling, contorting everyone's movement.

 

 

The woman was beating the holly hell out of Abraham. It was absolutely psychotic. Blood tasted the tarmac. He was belittled by the thumping of the woman's abounding soles from her thick-setted combat boots. Pound by pound, more blood spilt – the more tense her finger became on the trigger.

 

 

Sasha fired.

 

“ **SASHA**! No!” 

Abraham's shout rents the air.

 

His voice had been a mere millisecond too late – without a thought or consideration, a rich mahogany handle became quite evident behind the woman's thin fingers, a curved blade glossing in the pallid emeralds of Abraham's eyes. All too rapidly, the woman's hand had followed back behind her, and in the blink of an eye, the blade vanished through the still atmosphere. 

 

 

Sasha blinks, her expression fell. Abraham's eyes had stuck dead unto her, like glue, faded jades as his complexion abruptly paled.  Why was he looking at me like that? Sasha weakly curled her lips in retort, “What?” Her hands are suddenly numb, again. The rifle scatters unto the tarmac, clanking before finally settling down between her boots, where she noticed stains of red puddles leaking off the ebony tips of her left combat boot. She looks to her hand. It's red. Blood. Her hand was bleeding. No. She looks closer. It was coming from her upper arm. Sasha's eyes resemble glass. She doesn't want to cry, but the pain sears dully in her shoulder; hot, and wet. Her finger touches the gashed fabric – the slick metal of the dagger's blade firmly twisted into the tissues and flesh. Blood was everywhere. The mahogany handle stuck out, a carving of a barbed wire bat? 

 

 

“Sasha!” She heard Abraham yell, his footsteps close. But, she didn't know how close. She's stopped breathing. Panic floods through her veins, poisonous and raw – and the stars only spin on without her. Expanding her lungs is excruciating. Each lung is a solid wall refusing her desperate gasps. She can't take a deep breath. Darkness bites in. 

 

 

“Rick ...” She recalls Daryl's voice and the static reception of his walkie talkie, but everything else is nonexistent to Sasha. 

 

 

“Sasha's down...

two minutes...

some woman...

tried to steal the truck...

bring her back?

Copy that...

bringing her back.”

 

Hands laced in cuffs behind her back,

Lucille smiled.

 

 

This was _only_ the beginning.


	4. Chapter 4

** TIME TO MEET THE MAN **

 

**CHAPTER THREE**

 

_Everything was blue_

_His pills, his hands, his jeans_

 

 

 

It wasn't the Hilltop.

It wasn't the Kingdom.

No. . .

It was Alexandria.

 

Lucille had never seen anything like it before. It was an entire different world. A world Lucille hadn't recognized in years. This was something other than reality. Southern living homes sat lively besides the narrowed streets of the tussock flattened grass. It was nothing like the patched, sandy dirt back home at the Sanctuary. Even the smell. Gardens fulfilling the aroma of freshly blossomed roses. Between the neat beds of crimson bloom the fragrance is a time machine, granting her the fleeting visit to her past—

 

No. . .

Lucille hated the past.

_Everything_ about it.

Rotten and toxic to her mind.

She hated how the place reminded her of how stable her life once was.

 

_They're mocking you_ , the cold whisper chimed through her head. _All of them. They think they're be better than you. They think they know pain. Show them . . . show them._

 

Hands restricted behind her lower spine, nothing stopped the sharp tip of Lucille's elbow from swinging back into hard bone. Flesh scraped against her elbow. Whoever it had been grunted. A pulpy, cracking noise squelched in the ears of surrounding folks of the community. Heavy footsteps raced beside her. She shot around in a keen turn. The tip of her boot drove into the sound. Waves of her umber hair tangling and falling from her thick eyelashes, she held the beautifully lit eyes or shall she say _eye_ of a teenage boy; watching as he had stumbled a few inches back from the abrupt strike.

 

A face of agony stared back at her and her heart paused for a beat. A sudden rustle of _what ifs_ accompany her mind if she decides to follow through on what she plans to do. But it's all gone under a blink of an eye, as Negan's voice —the man she was doing this for—replaces her thoughts. _Do it . . . Do it. . ._

 

Again, Lucille swung her boot into the young boy. His rugged, milky skin shifted by the snap of her boot into his cheekbone. Her eyes are hazed, but she can still witness the boy collapse.  More footsteps rustle by. Lucille turns. An older man stands in front of her and she immediately halts. Stiff as a statue. Her lungs tighten. The feeling is abnormal. Something she hasn't experienced in a very long time. _No_ man had the capability of sucking the oxygen from the air —from Lucille. Not like **NEGAN** could.

 

It was nothing she'd ever seen. His eyes were glossy hues of cerulean devil, like chaotic tides on a stormy night. His nose is perfectly straight. Lips silently thin, the kind that made Lucille yearn to taste the blood off of. She made a mental gamble they were soft, plush under the strength of her kiss. The look he warranted her—blue and daring, excited her more than anything.

 

The frigid, stainless steel nozzle of the Colt Python lightly graced the flesh of her forehead as he clutched its steel. _I dare you_. . . Lucille thought. It made her panties jumble; steamy fluids flowing. Nothing made Lucille get off more than feeling the brink of death —because in awful truth, nobody truly had the balls to pull the trigger.

 

The man stared motionlessly straight ahead. He was doing that thing where he overthinks. _She hurt your son. Your son. Kill her. Kill her. More blood_. His mind races. All of a sudden there's a woman of ebony skin by his side, retracting him instantly from his thoughts. Her full lips are pursed, black eyes meeting Lucille, while one hand steadily lowered onto the shoulder of the man's denim shirt. He doesn't react to the touch, but there was something rare in how delicate the palm of her hand truly felt.

 

“Don't do it, Rick. . .”

 

_Rick_. So that's what this hunk of fine meat name was. Lucille hadn't met a _Rick_ before, perhaps the man's death was something she would enjoy after all. It made her **SMILE** , lips spread like toxic oil. 

 

Rick's shoulder tensed more from the pleasant gesture. His eyebrows curl against each other at the sudden weight of the lady's forehead leaning into the nozzle. _Was this woman insane?_ _Did she really want me to shoot her?_ He can't believe it. If that's what she wanted, Rick was more than willing to give it to her. The muscles in his wrist flex, detailed as he forces the muzzle deeper and harder, a circular scarlet mark carving into the woman's fragile flesh. 

 

“ _Rick_.” The woman repeats more firmly, her thin fingers clutched deeply into the fabric of his shirt. His eyelashes bat, pupils dilating under what Lucille perceived as realization and almost like _un perro_ , Rick's thumb falls off the hammer. The frigid chill that once accompanied her forehead vanishes. There's a mild clank, and the revolver retracted into Rick's side holster. 

 

And for the first time, 

the man's voice pushes through; southern accented, gravelly and deeply husky.

**FULL OF THREAT.**

 

“ _Just keep your mouth shut and do as I say_.” His hand quickly latches onto one of her upper arms. His vigorous, filthy nails dig into the thick-setted fabric of her fur coat sleeve, enough to lash markings into the Suede fabric. “ _Do the opposite and I will shoot you_.”


End file.
